*****
It was 5:45 p.m. and Tom’s stomach growled like an angry Sasquatch. McBridle was in the kitchen fixing dinner. He slouched lazily on the couch and stared at the wall in front of him. He didn’t know why; he just stared. His eyes were fixated on a small hole that appeared to have been damaged by a sharp object and was in need of repair. His immediate obsession was to fix it; yet for some unknown reason, he feared going near it. The mind-crash had lapped without penalty, and he felt relieved.